


Highs and Lows

by Tom_Tomorrow



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Mental issues, Angst, Broken Octavia, Extremely Slow Burn, F/F, Foster Care, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Protective Lexa, Someone give these two a hug, They need it, broken Lexa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-11-05 16:56:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11017611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tom_Tomorrow/pseuds/Tom_Tomorrow
Summary: What makes a family?Clarke Griffin is almost certain that this is the question that sent her mother searching just before her fifth birthday because the Griffin home was a pair of revolving doors after that.Twelve years and dozens of foster kids later, her family opens itself to a pair of foster siblings that leaves Clarke with questions of her own.A Foster Care AU





	1. Chapter 1

What makes a family?

Clarke Griffin is almost certain that this is the question that sent her mother searching just before her thirtieth birthday. 

Clarke had been young, barely four, when her father had died.

So she only remembered the idea of him, not anything of him.

But her mother, Abby, had been fresh into her residency program and they’d been married for almost five years at that point. So she’d understandably took it hard. 

When he died, they drifted around a bit, fulfilling the epitome of a single-parent household.

Looking for answers in an ocean full of questions. 

And somewhere along the line, her mother decided that opening their home to foster children seemed to be the only way to answer the unanswerable. 

Atone for a past full of mistakes or some wishy-washy bullshit like that.

Searching for a way to fulfill her calling and to affect the world. 

Searching for a way to give her, Clarke suspected, what she never had. Siblings. A family. 

She remembered not being too enthused at the time, used to being the apple of her mother’s eye at that point.

But she also remembers being excited, because the idea of having siblings was to interesting to pass itself up.

Either way her mother’s mind had been made up, even when the process itself became long and tedious due to her mother’s busy schedule.

What should have been arduous months and was crossing into the painstaking year territory.

But it never bothered Clarke who ceased the opportunity to continue being the apple of her mother’s eye 

Then, between all the classes and safety measures and licensing procedures, her mother had met Marcus Kane. 

He had been a professor at the local community college across the ways and had been just as excited about the prospect of helping others.

He was warm and nice and intelligent and when they started dating, he was loving towards her mother. 

Marcus was also kind towards her, treated her the way she wanted to be treated, took her seriously, and could always be counted on for decent advice.

And as much as Clarke wanted to hate him, he became the father she never had. 

So when he proposed, Clarke of course was ecstatic. 

The first placement their budding family had was short term.

Very short term.

Their names were Roan and Anya.

A boy and a girl. Nine and ten, just a two years older than she was at the time.

A pair of spritely siblings from a kind of rough part of town.

It was a only for two weeks. Just until their biological mother got out of the hospital.

Something about a mental illness or a difficult pregnancy, it was never fully explained to her.

But the excitement of those fourteen days left an impact on her.

And when they left, true to their word, two weeks later, it was only then that Clarke completely warmed up to the idea of having other kids in the house. 

Their home was more or less a matter of revolving doors after that. 

A girl named Harper, whose dad had willingly relinquished his custody. 

Jasper, a junkie, whose parents overdosed when he was just nine years old. 

Aden, a three year old, whose parents were serving prison sentences for dog fighting.

Illian, Monroe, Jones and countless others had all stayed in their home at some point or another.

She was pretty sure her mother kept a scrapbook of them all somewhere. 

Clarke was fourteen, when one of the longer placements moved in.

Raven Reyes.

Raven’s parents had been killed in a car accident when she was fourteen and she’d been bouncing around foster homes until she finally landed at the Griffins shortly after her seventeenth birthday. 

She’d hurt her leg badly in the accident, so much so that she needed a cane to get around, then eventually a prosthetic, but she refused to let it slow her down. 

Even when the wounds were somewhat been fresh when they first met, Raven had already figured it out by then that it paid off to be resilient, and had found it somewhere within herself to power through. 

They’d hit it off immediately. Became close friends.

And Raven was always keen to help and give advice whenever she had to chance.

Eagerly helping her with her homework and Marcus and Abby out with any odd jobs that they needed.

Raven stayed around for an entire year, then a little more after that, until she decided to ‘pull herself up by the bootstraps’ and go make something of herself. 

She was a genius in her own right, but never ended up going college.

Instead, she opened a mechanic shop on the other side of Arcadia. 

And even though Raven was twenty one now, the fiery Latina makes it a point to drop in every weekend and say hi. 

Now though, the house was empty.

It had been empty since Zoran, a sweet little six year old with a peculiar name and a just as peculiar list of disabilities, had been sent back to his biological family five weeks ago.

So empty. 

Until now apparently. 

“I’m sorry to be on your doorstep at such late notice, but you understand I wouldn’t be here if the case wasn’t urgent.”

A muffled voice is saying to her mother and Clarke strains to listen from her bedroom door.

There’s a storm raging outside and the harsh patter of summer rain against her window makes it difficult to hear anything clearly.

But still…

It sounds like… Indra. 

Indra was a social worker. 

She had been Anya’s and Roan’s social workers through their albeit short stints here, Harper’s too. 

Indra had even been Raven’s for a while, until the mechanic had aged out the system.

“It appears that abuse was prevalent in their previous foster home, and it was missed by the previous social worker. The police are dealing with the matter now… but until then I’m trying very hard to keep them together.”

And it still shocks Clarke that people can be so cruel.

That people can beat children within an inch of their lives and still claim to love them. 

“Of course, of course, Indra, we understand.”

Her mother is saying and the worry and the subtle anger is audible in her tone. 

Clarke can picture them in her mind now.

Her mother standing with her arms crossed, hand on her chin. 

Marcus with his steadying hand on her shoulder, standing just behind her.

More words like trauma and malnutrition and neglect and sexual assault are thrown around, coloring the mystery of their stories with more and more horrifying detail.

From what she can gather the duo are sisters. 

Seventeen and thirteen. 

That the placement before this had been their longest.

Two years.

And all Clarke can think is how could no one know about the abuse for two whole years. 

The conversation continues for several moments, until Indra is finally saying she’s going to get them, and her parents are calling her down.

They explain everything in quick succession and Clarke nods, used to this and how things go. 

The doorbell rings moments later and it’s Indra again, but this time she has two people behind her. 

“Hello, Clarke it’s nice to see you again.”

Indra says warmly, but the blonde can see how tired and stressed she is.

“It’s nice to see you too.”

And it really is, even under these circumstances.

The rain is falling harder outside. Pouring down with a vendetta.

And it’s quite obvious by the trios soaked appearances, that none of them had even considered bringing an umbrella. 

The first girl, the taller and older of the two, stands just behind Indra, lurking in the front door, but not quite stepping in. 

Something is militaristic about the way she carries herself.

Shoulders back, head held high, feet spread slightly apart.

Her olive skin is dirty, marred with a few mottled scars that leave more questions than answers, but she’s very pretty in an unconventional type of way. 

Long, greasy ringlets of her dirty brown hair pull loosely into a pony tail as if she made some kind of effort to protect it from the rain, then gave up halfway through.

Her dark, soulful, eyes hold a distinct edge to them as they sweep over everything in the room. 

Shuttered and sharp as they move from Indra to Marcus to her mother, then finally her.

The girl crosses her arms as their eyes meet, folding them in faux outward intimidation. 

Stands a tiny bit taller as if she has something to prove.

Until she stands at full height one, no two, inches above her. 

And Clarke can feel the anger and defiance peeling off the girl in waves. 

But she can also feel the fragility.

It’s barely there, smothered underneath the tough exterior, but it’s there. 

She’s sure of it.

“This is Alexandra.”

Indra says vaguely. 

“Lexa.” 

The older and taller of the two rebuts gruffly. 

Her voice is huskier and lower than Clarke would have initially assumed and it’s also heavy. 

Almost strained.

And it’s hard not to imagine why.

The blonde offers a half wave that isn’t returned. 

So she plays it off, then tries to look around the olive skinned girl to see the shorter of the two.

Because if that is Lexa, then this must be the sister, Octavia.

The younger girl is a wisp of a thing. 

She’s a head, a head and a half, shorter than her sister.

With stringy, muscular arms that disappear like sticks into a faded ivy green t-shirt that’s at least two sizes to big.

And long, black hair that’s just as tangled, just as greasy as her sister’s hangs loosely in front of her eyes. 

But it’s the way she stands, shoulders hunched, eyes averted towards the ground, jaw clenched, that make it seems like she’s trying to disappear into the floor. 

As if the only thing anchoring her here to this world is the finger that curves around one of Lexa’s belt loops. 

It makes Clarke want to put her at somewhere around nine or ten, instead of the twelve-year-old she supposedly is.

Clarke’s line of sight skirts back towards Lexa.

Lexa, who’s staring at her with such intensity, as if she’s daring her to say something, anything about Octavia that will give her excuse to lash out. 

And when Clarke doesn’t, the silent battle of wills continues as the adults continue to talk over them.

“Clarke? Clarke, why don’t you show Lexa and Octavia their rooms?’ 

Marcus asks her and she notices how deliberate he is being with his words and wonders how he can make everything sound so easy. 

Also knows that he’s most likely only saying this to get the kids out of the room so the adults can sign the required paperwork. 

Clarke swallows dryly as the relentless stare is finally broken. 

Then she forces a smile. 

“Do you need help with any your stuff?”

The look of incredulousness from Lexa answers the question for her.

Clarke leans aside a little and sees their belongings still sitting on the porch behind them.

Sees the two black plastic bags lay at their feet. 

Something in her heart twists when she sees them. 

These are make shift suitcases that every foster kid that’s ever entered the Griffin home carried. Carried and guarded as if their lives depended on them.

And Clarke curses silently as she eats her words. She shouldn’t be so flustered.

She’s done this tons of times. 

But Lexa doesn’t seem to be to bothered by this as she effortlessly grabs both of the bags.

Maneuvering around the younger girl, with such ease, that Clarke realizes she must have done this before. 

And that makes painful sense.

Both of the sisters move into the home. 

Slow and unsure. 

And it’s hard to miss how they both stand with their backs facing the wall.

How Lexa has very deliberately put herself in front of Octavia.

They all pretend not to notice anyway.

“Make yourselves at home. Clarke will show you where the bathroom is too. So you can change into warmer clothes if you want.”

Abby calls as Clarke beckons them towards the stairs. 

“And girls? When you’re done, why don’t you come back downstairs? I’m sure your hands must hurt, Lexa. And if you want I can take a look at your sister too.”

So her mother had picked up on the fierce protectiveness that the olive skinned girl was exuding too.

And Clarke notices for the first time the swollen red of Lexa’s knuckles. 

How the skin is broken and torn and misshapen and discolored on the edges.

She also notices the nasty red welts twisting up and down Octavia’s legs.

And how she’s wearing two different shoes. Different sizes and different colors.

Clarke swallows hard as Marcus closes the door behind them.

“Yeah… yeah that would be nice.”

Lexa is saying, short and clipped.

Octavia doesn’t say anything.

She hasn’t even looked at any of them since this conversation was initiated.

It dawns on Clarke, that she doesn’t even know what color her eyes are. 

Then Lexa is stepping in front of her, blocking the younger girl from her view. 

So Clarke keeps moving, leads them up stairs and shows them the rooms they’ll be staying in, brings them the extra towels, then says where she’ll be if they need them. 

And it’s clear that despite, wherever they had come from, that someone had definitely done a number on these girls.


	2. Chapter 2

The first night is the hardest. 

The sisters are awkward and stiff and silent.

They speak only when spoken too, with forced politeness and false smiles that never meet their eyes. 

And they really only means Lexa. And even then, speaking is only monosyllabic at best.

And in those first twenty-four hours, Clarke realizes that it’s only because they’re so excruciatingly quiet that she can learn so much about them without ever really asking.

Because in the beginning, when Lexa stands tall and holds herself high and stares everything down with that long morose stare.

It is all done to make the olive-skinned girl look strong. Fierce. Intimidating. 

That bravado worked initially. Especially in those first few minutes. Clarke has more than enough humility to admit that.

But it is also in the beginning, when Clarke swears she feels Lexa’s eyes burrowing into her back as she leads them to the guest room, that realizes it is exactly that. Bravado. 

Because upon arrival at the entrance, the blonde turns to realize they are both a good ten paces behind her, hovering at the edges of the stairs.

Lexa’s eyes sliding over everything in the cream-colored stretch of hallway.

Something ambiguous within her amber orbs. 

Not steeliness like before, though the hardness is still very much there, but something akin to despondency with a flicker of apprehension. 

The tightness of the older girl’s grip on her younger sister doesn’t go unnoticed either. 

The grip on Octavia who hasn’t so much as looked up, much less said anything. 

It is only then, with their hesitance, when Clarke can verify that things aren’t as one dimensional as they seem. 

That her suspicion earlier was correct. 

That these girls weren’t all anger and despondency, but fragile as well. 

Marcus and her mother seem to pick up on that too. 

And Clarke remembers what her mom used to say, that kids that come back without any kind of trauma do not exist. 

That trauma shatters the most basic assumptions about oneself. 

It takes away the nice, the “Life is good, “I’m safe”, “I can trust others,” – It takes those and twists them into horrible nasty things, into “I can’t win, “The world is dangerous”, I can’t trust other people.”

Then hammers down on it. Exponentially.

Clarke understood it then. Clarke understands it now. 

She’s unable to relate to whatever they are feeling right now, but she understands that they’re hurting, even if they refuse to admit it. 

Physically, mentally and emotionally.

And there is nothing really that she can do about that.

So, she continues forward with the mini tour.

Showing them where things are. Her own bedroom, the bathroom at the end of the hall, Raven’s old bedroom, the bonus room.

And painfully ignores the deliberate distance put between them.

“That’s pretty much it, feel free to go wherever you need, I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

Her mother doesn’t let anything go nearly as easily. 

Abby understands, but she’s also no nonsense.

That demeanor shines through hour that follows.

“So, how did this happen?”

Abby asks with a forceful calm, softly wrapping sterile dressings around Lexa’s now clean but reddened, swollen knuckles.

Octavia’s already had her turn and the younger girl picks absentmindedly at her laces, staring carefully at nothing.

“I fell.”

The older girl says automatically. Robotically. 

Anyone with half a brain would know that this is a lie.

People don’t fall on their knuckles. Especially not repeatedly, judging by the various shades of bruising.

“And I suppose Octavia got her bruises the same way?”

Abby says, more than asks. Just as calm, Just as steady. Not even looking up from her methodical work.

So, only Clarke sees the jerky nod. 

The four of them are in the living room now.

Marcus having stepped into to the kitchen to prepare a late-night snack, after it became clear how uncomfortable the sisters were around him.

They look a lot different now. 

Lexa, sitting stiff at the corner of the sofa in baggy grey sweats, jaw clenched, back straight, as Abby finishes her work.

Octavia, with her knees curled to her chest, head resting on her knees as she plays with the laces on one of her shoes. 

Clarke’s not entirely sure where the other one went. 

And the more Clarke looks at them, skin rubbed raw with soapy suds, the more she thinks that Lexa and Octavia can’t possibly be related.

Because with the dirt scoured away, Octavia’s inky black hair, pale, pale skin, and striking cobalt eyes are a direct contrast to the olive skinned, curly haired brunette.

Clarke doesn’t say as much though.

Abby hums a response and leans back from the freshly tied bandages, motioning for Clarke to begin putting away the supplies.

And the blonde turns away and her mother turns back.

Back to Lexa who looks ready to fight someone. Back to Octavia who seems lost in her own world. 

“Now I know things are frantic and confusing right now and everything seems a bit rushed and poorly planned. But I want you girls to know, that you aren’t going back to that foster home. You don’t ever have to go back there. And Marcus and I will do everything in our responsibility to make sure that never happens.”

There’s a strained silence in the room as her mother continues.

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. And in this home, we treat everyone with respect, with kindness, with care. Because you’re our kids, our responsibility.”

It’s the same basic spiel she gives everyone who comes through their doors.

Because some kids, some kids truly don’t know.

“That’s what Bell says.”

Clarke stiffens at the unexpected contribution of light, raspy whispered words.

Octavia.

Clarke turns slightly, pausing her motions.

The twelve-year-old looks up at Abby with wide cobalt eyes. 

And whereas Lexa had done an almost impeccable job of hiding behind the façade of anger, her younger sister is essentially an open book.

Wonder and the curiosity flittering to the surface of the dominating despondence and wariness.

“Bell? Is that a friend of yours?”

Her mother asks easily, disguising what has to be obvious surprise at Octavia’s sudden openness.

“Bellamy is her brother.”

Lexa answers stiffly, in such a way that leaves no room for discussion.

Something indecipherable flashing in her eyes, as unspoken memories filter to the surface

Her freshly bandaged hands now digging painfully into the cushions of the couch.

“Bell is my brother.”

Octavia echoes in an airy whisper.

But something is off kilter in the way she says it. Something lost. Something disjointed. Something sullen.

Once again leaving more questions than answers.

The twelve-year-old sounds like a fairy.

Her eyes are shuttered again as she averts her eyes back towards her shoelaces.

And as Octavia folds into herself, Lexa suddenly protrudes herself outwards in front of her sister with faux enthusiasm.

Eager to change the subject.

“I have a job.” 

She states huskily, with the persistent, obstinate, formal tone.

“I have a job. Will I... Will I still be able to go to it?”

Lexa repeats again.

And as Clarke puts the remainder of the first aid materials away, she listens to her mother try to keep up with the sudden turn in conversation. 

“Yes... Yes, of course. Where do you work?”

A pause.

“Trigedakru.”

Lexa holds her chin high as she says it. Dark amber eyes meeting Abby’s directly. 

Trigedakru.

Clarke has heard about it a couple of times.  
Trigedakru was an old pawn shop on the impoverished side of Ton DC, somehow having managed to scrape by in the recession.

It was more infamously known for the massive junkyard behind it, which had been a consistent fixture in the news for more than enough gang activity, ranging from everything drug deals to full out body dumps.

It was also completely on the other side of town, but Abby doesn’t miss a beat.

“Well, if you give me your shift times, I’m sure we can work something out.”

And Clarke notices how her mom doesn’t directly say yes this time.

Of course, for quite a legitimate reason.

Lexa seems to catch on it too, because she’s visibly leaning away and back into the couch.

But her lips press into a thin smile anyway and with the same forced politeness she mutters a quiet thank you.

“Yeah, I’m sure I could drive you or something if you want.”

Clarke finds herself offering, ignoring her mother’s very pointed look. 

And for the third time that night Lexa’s steady, unwavering gaze focuses on her. 

The intensity the look carries sends shivers down her spine.

“Dinner’s ready!”

Marcus calls from the kitchen, saving the quartet from what is about to become a very awkward silence.

It doesn’t mean that the strain is gone by the time they move to the kitchen. 

... ...

Dinner was an event in itself.

Lexa clearly lives for Octavia’s well-being. 

Because she doesn’t even try to eat anything, until her sister does.

Marcus has tried his best, making a variety of everything, before sheepishly explaining he's not the best cook.

But both sisters end up eating a hearty amount of everything. As if they hadn't eaten properly in days.

By the time everyone's finished and the dishes are cleaned and put away, it is well past midnight.

And Abby makes sure everyone is settled as everyone goes to bed.

Something wakes Clarke up in the middle of the night. 

A feeling maybe. But mostly the scratch in the back of her throat.

The digital clock on the bedside table glows a blurry quarter past three, and she’s half way sure she could roll over and suck it up for a few more hours, but when the scratchy feeling doesn’t go away she finds herself grudgingly walking down the darkened hallway in search of something satiate her thirst.

Her parent’s doors are closed.

So are Octavia’s and Lexa’s.

There’s no discernible noise from either of the rooms.

And Clarke wonders how they can sleep so soundly when every step she takes sounds like a land mine.

She stumbles her way along in the dark.

Past the dining room, the living room, around the creaky step that Marcus always swore he was going to fix.

And the refrigerator lights the kitchen like a skylight as she pours herself a glass of orange juice.

But it’s only when she’s on the way back to bed, when she sees the living room from a different vantage point, that the blonde sees her.

Lexa. 

Olive-skin glinting in the moonlight as she leans, cross-legged against the first-floor window.

For a fleeting moment, the blonde wonders why she’s sitting out here, but then she registers the way Lexa’s anxiously picking at the bandages.

And it dawns on Clarke, that Lexa probably hasn’t been to sleep at all.

It’s feels strange to see Lexa without Octavia tucked under her watchful eye.

It feels odd.

Out of place.

And how is she supposed to get past the taller girl?

As guarded and coiled as she had been earlier.

The wooden floorboard beneath her feet creaks, answering the question for her.

Damnit. 

Striking amber eyes snap up. 

Clearly not expecting a visitor.

And Lexa can’t get up her guard fast enough, so Clarke can see the flurry of emotion that rushes across her.

A spilt second of confusion. Then worry. Fear. Wariness.

Mostly wariness.

So, the blonde stays back, not wanting to spook her anymore.

But it’s too late.

The taller girl is already on her feet. 

Puffing her chest. Balling her fists.

And it would have been intimidating. 

If the blonde hadn’t seen that flash of tired fear.

If it weren’t for the fact that Lexa looked so exhausted. 

“I’m sorry.”

Her apology is met with silence.

Lexa doesn’t even twitch.

Clarke lets out in a breath.

Unsure if she should be grateful or worried by the stony response. 

She slowly leans off the creaky wood.

It sounds like a scream in the silence.

The blonde clears her throat and tries again.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

That gets more of a response.

Lexa blinks. Once. Twice. Uneasily clears her throat.

“You didn’t scare me.”

Husky, hollow, and as strained as ever.

Another lie, but Clarke doesn’t try to argue. 

Instead, she only shrugs.

“Couldn’t sleep?’

Clarke asks casually, when the taller girl doesn’t relax.

Keeping her demeanor purposefully open, when dark, troubled eyes search the blonde’s own for any inkling of deception.

Then at last, “Sleep and I don’t get along.”

Clarke knows that feeling, though, she suspects, because of a distinctly different reason.

So, she shrugs again and Lexa glances back toward the window.

Guard not down, but having apparently determined her not a threat. 

“What were you looking at?”

Clarke ventures, taking a small step into the living room.

Because what the hell, Lexa hasn’t attacked her yet.

A long moment of silence stretches across the room.

And for a minute, Clarke thinks Lexa’s ignoring her once more.

“There aren’t a lot of stars here.”

The taller girl says at last. 

“Well, it was raining.”

She offers up.

“It stopped raining hours ago.”

Lexa murmurs dryly.

Clarke has nothing to say in response to that. 

Another moment passes.

Easier than the first. 

Then Lexa’s eyes are back on her, a shade darker than before, searching her face again.

“The sky here it doesn’t get dark enough. That’s why you can’t see them.”

Lexa sounds disappointed, almost forlorn. 

And she unconsciously rubs at her bandages as she steps away from the window. 

Back into the dark, away from the bathing rays of moonlight. 

“I didn’t mean to be snooping around the house like this.”

And the formality of her tone is back.

“Your house is our house. Like my mom said.”

But there’s something in Lexa’s solemn gaze that says she doesn’t quite believe what Clarke just said.

“Seriously, you’re welcome to stay out here all night.”

But Lexa has rapidly shuttered herself away again.

Guard up and fortified over the blanket of exhaustion. 

“No. No...”

And just like that Lexa is gone.

Leaving Clarke alone in the moonlit room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first two chapters were admittedly slow, but I was trying to lay a lot of groundwork for the main plot. Let me know if you want me to speed things up a bit or if there is more of something that you want to see.
> 
> Anyways, what did you think?
> 
> About Lexa and Octavia's relationship?
> 
> On Bellamy? What do you think is going on there?
> 
> I'll try to get the next chapter out sooner.

**Author's Note:**

> Authors Note: Trying my hand at a foster care AU. Playing with the idea of romantic Clexa, not sure yet, it depends on what the readers want. But if it is, it will be an extremely slow burn (cuz it’s awkward for them to be foster siblings and dating). All characters from the main 100 will be making an appearance. And before it’s asked, yes Bellamy exists and yes he is Octavia’s brother in this story. What do you think? Should I continue?


End file.
